


Close Quarters

by sidewinder



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Community: slashthedrabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 21:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10952772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewinder/pseuds/sidewinder
Summary: Fin has to put up with a lot, sharing a car with Munch.





	Close Quarters

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble community prompt #447: Personal Space.
> 
> Inspired by Fin's classic line from the episode "Zebras": _"Ten years in the car with Munch. I’ve smelled a lot worse."_

When you had to share a patrol car with a partner for extended periods of time, you learned quickly how to deal with the lack of personal space. Or at least, you’d best learn fast, if you didn’t want a stakeout to turn into a knock-out round of fisticuffs.

You learned things such as not wearing too much cologne—though you always kept some on hand, in case you had to go a few days without a shower, or ended up dumpster-diving or rifling through trash cans for evidence. You learned it was a bad idea to bring a tuna fish sandwich for lunch, especially if it was going to sit around in a hot car for hours. And you left the onions off your hash browns at breakfast (or whatever else you were eating), to be polite to the person you’d be sitting next to in confined quarters without relief.

All cops learned these things in short order. In fact they usually did so while still rookies, breaking in their uniforms.

All cops except John Munch—or so Fin had decided, as they squabbled _yet again_ over John’s choice of in-car dining.

“Smells like something fuckin’ died in here, man,” Fin complained, desperate to open a window to release the stench upon the outside world. But it was a icy, cold February afternoon and that would make them all the more conspicuous, sitting here in their car, parked down the block from a suspect’s apartment building. “The hell you eatin’?”

“Corned beef Reuben. Want some?”

“Fuck, no.” Fin waved away the odiferous sandwich as Munch offered him a taste. The pungent aroma of sauerkraut and Swiss cheese made Fin’s nose wrinkle in disgust.

Munch shrugged and said, “You’re such a finicky eater,” before taking a big bite.

“No I ain’t. I just don’t appreciate smelling that shit in the car.” Fin had gone with something much more neutral: turkey on wheat, lettuce, tomatoes, mayo.

And no onions. Because he was a considerate partner that way.

“Suit yourself. But you know, sauerkraut is an incredibly beneficial superfood. Good for the immune system, fighting cancer,  boosting energy, regulating the digestive system…”

“Your digestive system _better_ be regulated if I’m gonna be stuck here with you all day.” Fin shook his head. “Man, no wonder all your other partners left you. Tomorrow _I’m_ packing your lunch.”

Ten years of this routine, and nothing ever changed. Sometimes he wondered if John did it on purpose—being irritating in so many little ways that it tended to drive people away, keep them from getting too close to him.

If so, what did it say about Fin that he put up with it all of these years? And that he loved John anyway, quirks and foibles and smelly sandwiches and everything else?

John would no doubt have some pithy comment to make or quote to share if he asked, so Fin didn’t. And next time John offered him a taste, he grudgingly took a bite.


End file.
